


Language Lessons, 18: trahere

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [18]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-28
Updated: 2005-11-28
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 18: trahere

  
  
Dear heaven, but Shaftoe was stubborn as an ox when the mood took him; oh, he'd play the merry Vagabond, all smiles and jests and good humour, but push him hard enough and you'd find there was a streak of awkwardness a mile deep at the core of him, a ... but Jack could not think of the _core_ of Jack Shaftoe without all manner of deliciously lewd and lubricious memories crowding in on him -- recollections of sinking himself deep within the volcanic heat of Jack Shaftoe's body, of his sirocco breath gusting 'gainst Jack's neck, of his infamous half-a-cock hot enough to brand Jack's palm and overlay the scar that stretched across it, and the blood-hot gush as he spent himself in Jack's hand, against Jack's flushed and sweaty skin -- adding an extra dimension of hotness to the tropical sun and the motionless, oven-hot air that wrapped around every man on the _Black Pearl_ 's deck, where the boards were scorching on the soles of bare feet and the brass fittings of the ship seemed to glow white-hot, shimmering in the sun, arrowing beams of magnified light into the eyes of the unwary: Jack couldn't blame his crew, on this blazing afternoon, for seeking what little shade was provided by the loose sail that was tented over the yard, affixed to various cleats and pins on the gunwale, trapping the hot air yet lessening the strength of the sun's rays -- rays that could, in Jack's certain experience, drive a man mad -- and creating a sanctuary for those who were suffering from the combination of unusually potent vinous spirits (the locals brewed an evil concoction of fruit and yams, and they'd all felt duty-bound to sample it most thoroughly, ashore last night) and the breezeless bright day that had, unaccountably, followed; a sanctuary for those men _intelligent_ enough to seek it, though Shaftoe seemed unwilling to do so, perhaps dazed by the heat or his hangover or by the after-effects of the (exhausting, yet exhilirating) exertions they'd shared on returning, late and loud, to the ship, seeking a night aboard while most of the crew lay groaning -- singly, together or in the company of a surprising number of native harlots -- on the soft sandy beach of the uncharted island that seemed to insult Jack by its continued presence, aft; Shaftoe, perhaps as legacy of the wand'ring, random life he'd led on land, was not usually slow to take advantage of any creature comfort that might present itself in his way, and Jack was surprised that he'd insisted on lounging around in the sun, stripped bare (a sight that never failed to bring a smile, or more accurately a leer, to Jack's face) save for a threadbare pair of linen drawers, baking himself on the hot, dry deck as though he'd a mind to turn himself to leather, and merely grinning and waving a dismissive hand at Jack when the latter -- his _captain_ , after all -- required him to step below, out of the sun, and dispose himself somewhere cooler; "an' we'll be more _private_ there, besides," Jack murmured, standing over Shaftoe's supine form and heartily wishing that he was drunk enough, again (though that fierce distillation was enough to make him forswear drink for the rest of his life, or the rest of the day), to forget his crew, forget their damned eyes, and stretch himself out atop Shaftoe, who -- while never a _comfortable_ mattress -- would surely make it worth Jack's while, one way or another; who was stirring a little, shading his eyes against the sun, and fixing Jack with a glare, and requesting that Jack Sparrow shift himself to one side, since he was directly 'tween Shaftoe and the sunlight; "aye," said Jack, all fierce, "an' not inclined to stand here shading you, neither, for there's _cooler_ places on board this ship," forbearing to add that Jack Shaftoe's very presence raised the temperature another intolerable degree; "cooler?" enquired Shaftoe, grinning and shaking his head, "now that I don't b'lieve, Jack; sun's got to your brains, I reckon, an' baked 'em to mush," at which Jack, setting his teeth, reached down and grabbed hold of Shaftoe's limp, sinewy arm, and hauled him up to sitting; "come with me, Mr Shaftoe, or I'll ..." but he could not think of any punishment both fitting and convenient, nothing that was likely to dissuade Shaftoe from his stubbornness and yet leave him able and willing to join his captain in the cool gloom of the aft hold, and in the end there was only one argument that'd work, and Jack used it without hesitation; plastered on that sweet smile that worked so well, and said, "Please?" and Shaftoe, giving him a wry, exasperated smile, said, "should've asked nicely to start with," and was on his feet and waiting for Jack without further handling, which was a pity; Jack led him down the ladder, and -- "no, this way" -- down again, away now from their cabin and its sweaty, comfortable bunk, down into the crepuscular depths of the hold; Jack needed no lanthorn to light his way here, and he took hold of Shaftoe's wrist and led him, _pulled_ him, along the narrow passageway between barrels and bales, working his way further aft; the smell was not so very bad, not since they'd sold off that load of tanned hides, and the salt pork wasn't rotting yet; "must say, Mr Shaftoe," remarked Jack, "you're the most _intractable_ fellow I know, when it suits you," and Shaftoe huffed with laughter, and retorted, "ah, but I'm 'tracted to you, ain't I?" which made Jack laugh, and turn, and pull Shaftoe to one side, where a heap of coarse sacking awaited further plunder; "'s'all from the same word, mate," he said happily, "some Latin word, as I recall; and it signifies _pulling_ ," and, suiting action to word, yanked Jack Shaftoe down on top of him on the sackcloth, here in the cool dark with no more than a glimmer of light making its way through the deck above; "pulling, Jack, like, oh, d'you remember the cot, when I had you and took you and hauled you t'wards me?" and Shaftoe laughed out loud now, pinning Jack down quite firmly, and said, "aye, an' the chains broke," his hand was at Jack's breeches, and his half-cock pushing -- clearly fired by the same images that inflamed Jack anew -- at Jack's hip, "and you left me beggin' you for it on the bloody floor, you --" but Jack, not caring to hear whatever epithet Shaftoe had for him today, kissed him to stop his mouth, to _start_ his hands; drew back, and murmured, "aye, Jack, pulling you t'wards me, pulling you, oooh, _onto_ me, and you pulling me too, pulling me in," and of course he'd not thought to bring anything down with him, and they must make do with hands and fingers, tongues and mouths, with Jack Shaftoe's mouth drawing forth Jack's soul, with Jack's hands quick and firm at Shaftoe's hot, hard prick, pulling each other close as could be, seeking a heat that was hotter and fiercer and finer than the sun.


End file.
